


three for free

by scrumbled



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Middle School Band Director, Angst, Fluff, Fluff Or Angst (how the heck about that), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 12:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10513461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrumbled/pseuds/scrumbled
Summary: What is isn’t what could be or what might have been, no matter how much Kravitz would like to think otherwise. It's okay, though. He only ever said "conductor" because it sounded better than "middle school band director."—read in the whole, this story is very sad and a little bit creepy, not much, but if you only read chapters 2 and 3, it's happy and adorable! choose your own adventure





	1. introduction (lacrimoso)

**Author's Note:**

> so chapters 2 and 3 are the bulk of the story, and on their own they're a complete narrative.  
> chapters 1 and 4 provide the context and a somewhat canonical explanation for the au, but they're Quite sad! so live your dreams and pick your path

When Kravitz cannot fight anymore, when he has to let himself sink under the inky waters surrounding him because he needs just a brief respite from the struggle, he sees things. In that split second where he closes his eyes and submerges fully, he sinks into full Technicolor visions of things that never happened. Things that could never be. He knows it’s a tactic designed to make him give up, make him sink forever under the waters. He can’t help himself if he takes a huge gulp of air every once in a while and lets himself sink for just a moment—


	2. scherzo (amabile)

 

“Alright, kids, get settled and warm up,” Kravitz says, holding open the door for a wave of children entering the band hall. The last of them come in in a pack, giggling about whatever thing has caught their fleeting attention. He smiles after them and walks to the stand at the middle of the room. 

 

“Masha, Darrel,” he calls over the crowd of kids beginning to play their instruments. The guilty parties look up from where they’re huddled over a Stone of Farspeech, no doubt marveling at some new app. “The band can’t play without two of its tubas! Start warming up, please!”

 

The two share a glance and shrug. He waits long enough for them and the other stragglers to have gotten a couple of warmup notes in and then he holds up his hand, baton at the ready.

 

The room stills. He’s still not over that part—he doesn’t need to say a word and they quiet down, intent on his every word. Well, maybe not his every word. They’re middle schoolers, after all.

 

“Alright everybody, couple of announcements. Tomorrow we’ve got the joint junior-high and high school percussion concert, in the high school auditorium at 7. We’ll have cookies!” 

 

He waits for the murmuring caused by that to settle, and cracks a wry grin. “I hear Niko is going to play Clair de Lune on the five-octave marimba.”

 

Predictably, the room explodes at that. Kravitz waits, with long practiced patience. They'll hush themselves soon enough, and anyway they get a double length music block today. He can afford a little wait. 

 

Also predictably, it's Angus who begins the shushing. He all but stands on his chair and waves his oboe over his head in his effort to implore his classmates to settle down. 

 

Kravitz smiles at that. Angus is… nothing if not an oboe player. Reminds Kravitz of himself as a kid, some days. Most days, he just marvels at how this tiny child manages to be a better person as a middle schooler than most adults. 

 

The class is quiet again. “To work,” Kravitz says. He taps his baton lightly on his stand and, with a raised eyebrow at his students, steps up to the podium. Some of them remember, mostly the older kids (and Angus), and they raise their instruments. Some are confused, because they know they're supposed to do something but they can't remember what it is. And there's a solid third who aren't paying a lick of attention. 

 

“Let's try that again,” he calls as he steps off of the podium. “Remember, ready position when I step up, and true set when I raise my arms.”

 

This time, most of them get it. “Block F,” Kravitz says, “Angus leading and everyone else echoing.”

 

He raises his arms, and a roomful of instruments lift in tandem. He runs them through their warm-up paces, taking his time with it, reminding them about listening assignments and checking for balance within the group. They're improving, his kids, so much so that he can confidently say he's proud of their work. 

 

His brain flies ahead of him, planning.  _ Conduct with your face as much as your hands,  _ he thinks. _ Whatever you feel, they will echo. Oof, need to check bassoon tuning, sounds like Piotr just got a new reed. Stay calm, stay kind. Teach to as many learning styles as possible. Have them move, and get the wiggles out constructively.  _

 

_ Crack a joke every once in a while, they're kids, not professionals.  _

 

_ When they wander, bring them back.  _

 

_ Engage, entertain, teach while they're having fun, reinforce.  _

 

When he deems them sufficiently warmed up, he cuts off the last sustain and sets his baton down, smiling. 

 

Some of his kids smile back, but that happiness drops off several of their faces when he calls pencil check. Most of the kids hold up their pencils instantly, but a couple slink out of their chairs to nab a golf pencil out of the box he keeps near the podium. When they've settled, Kravitz motions to the woman who came in a couple of minutes ago. 

 

“Since we have extra time today, we’re going to split up and work on Variations 1 and 3. The trumpets are going to go with Rav—uh, Ms. Ece. I'm sure most of you have met her, but if you haven't, she's the high school band director and the head of the fine arts department in our district. What she says is law, and—” he breaks off to lean in close and cup a dramatic hand around his mouth, “she's my boss, so treat her with the  _ utmost respect!” _

 

To a smattering of giggles, Ms. Ece steps forward and waves to the kids, adjusting her hijab slightly with her other hand. Funny, she only does that when she’s really nervous. 

 

He can hardly blame her, though. Kids are terrifying. 

 

“This way, trumpets,” she says. “Don't take your cases, we'll be back before the end of the period.”

 

The players file out of the room amid quiet murmurs. Kravitz sees Angus take the momentary break to wave shyly at their principal euphonium, a tiefling named Felix. Felix waves back, just as bashful. 

 

Kravitz smiles. He remembers that age. 

 

“Now that those stinkers have left, let's get some  _ real  _ work done, huh everyone?” he asks once the last trumpet leaves the room. “Flip to measure 55. That's rehearsal letter… H, for those of you who haven't numbered your measures.” 

 

He looks meaningfully at several students who duck and start scribbling numbers on their music. “I'm going to start with the duet in the oboe and first flute. Be productive while I'm not working with you. You can number, you can silently work through another bit of the piece, you can work on your solo.”

 

_ Ease up,  _ he thinks. “Hey, though don't fall asleep on me now, today is Big Chunk Friday! Once the trumpets come back in we'll try to go through the whole piece, huh?”

 

They chatter, excited now. 

 

“Here we go, flutes, oboes. There’s only one right place to start your notes, and it’s on the tip of my baton.”

 

_ Back to work now. Efficiency is key. Get done what you need to, and move on. Balance the higher clarinet parts to the lower ones, the 3rd clarinets are playing shy today. Next period is lunch, don't let them get too antsy. Make it easy for them to pay attention. Ask questions, and let someone other than Angus answer.  _

 

“You have to take a bigger breath than that, guys. I’m taking in more air than you, and I have a stick. Okay? Three counts and then play. If you have rests, count them carefully with 3 beats per measure  and come in where you’re supposed to. ”

 

_ Act like this is easy for you. It's the most natural thing in the world.  _

 

_ Jesus, that bassoon tuning sucks.  _

 

He brings the whole band in, weaves their parts together. He can hear how it's supposed to sound in his head— _ more horn, less piccolo, did the trombones come in a measure early?— _ and now he just has to take that knowledge and turn it into something his kids can do. The trumpets come back in, a sturdy understanding of Variation 3 under their belts. 

 

“Welcome back, trumpets! Get settled. Did Ms. Ece tell you she's a trumpet player too?” They nod and sit in their places. “Ready? Everyone’s in, three for free.” 

 

In the back, a Goliath named Theo raises his hand. “What’s three for free? ‘S that like a sale?”

 

Kravitz and the rest of the room share a chuckle. “No, although that would be a good deal. It means I'll give you a silent three counts, and then everyone comes in.”

 

He lifts his hands, and instruments follow, and they play. It occurs to him, as the pieces of the Variation slot together and interlock like the delicate puzzle pieces they're supposed to be, that he is completely happy. It catches him so quickly, he has to make up an excuse for why he stopped the rep, something about breathing. But there is no excuse for why his heart swells up in his chest, other than he is mindlessly, deliriously happy. He is so content he can taste it, a light yellow sweetness sitting at the back of his tongue. He can feel it sparking in his fingers, spreading across his cheekbones and shoulders like a flush. 

 

This moment, when the trumpets come in like rescuers on high, and the horns float above the rest of the band, and the woodwinds add that lovely flavor of reediness to the tuba sound, this moment is perfect. This is what he is meant to do. 

 

The last note of the Variation fades to nothing right as the bell rings. The room bursts into movement, kids packing up their instruments and gathering their stuff. Over the din, Kravitz calls “Remember to go to the percussion concert! There's free cookies!”

 

As they leave, he writes down notes in his music about what he needs to prepare for tomorrow, what he needs to research, what the kids did well and poorly— _ find trill fingerings for that one trill at 76, fix the balance in the euphonium feature so the solo can be heard, this part is too heavy, have them use a different consonant to tongue the notes here— _ and once he’s done, he rights the chairs and stands, sets them up for tomorrow. 

 

Ms. Ece coughs from where she was taking notes in the back. “Today was good, Krav—I mean,  _ Mister Ajal. _ ”

 

“I’m sorry, Raven,” Kravitz says to her raised eyebrow and wry smile, sheepish. “I’ll be better about it in the future.”

 

“It’s alright, I’m just poking fun,” she laughs. “I’ve gotta get to my own class. Did you get my email about substituting for Johann? He’s sick, and someone needs to work with the bass clarinets on some rough patches.”

 

“I did get it, but I was in the car, so I didn’t reply and then I forgot to do it later. I’m game.” Kravitz says as he heads towards his office. “I’ll see you at the high school soon. I’m coming early so we can discuss what needs to be done, ‘kay?”

 

She nods and gathers her stuff, tossing a “Bye!” over her shoulder. She opens the door to the band hall just as Angus approaches from the other side, and he holds the door for her. Kravitz hears her say, “My, well-dressed  _ and _ genteel!” and Angus replies “Thank you!” as he pushes his glasses up his nose. Angus holds the door open for several other kids, swapping thank-yous and you’re-very-welcomes, before he sees Kravitz. 

 

“Hello, sir!” he calls. He’s swapped his oboe case for a Jeff Angel lunchbox. Kravitz sweeps instrument cases out of the patch of floor leading to his office, marveling at how a concept as simple as “leave a path” is, apparently, too difficult for his kids to grasp. He props open the office door for the six or so kids who want to eat lunch in the band hall. Angus trails in, bumping shoulders with Felix. 

 

“Sir, why can we eat in the band hall office but not in the band hall?” Angus asks. 

 

Kravitz shrugs from where he’s seated at the desk. “The administration told me I couldn't let you eat in the band hall because of the crumbs, but I don't want to shut you guys out completely.” 

 

Angus nods sagely and sets his lunch down, and the rest of the kids follow suit. It's a wonderfully domestic scene, with all the kids unpacking their various lunches while Kravitz pages through his email. The moment shatters when Steven, a half-orc clarinet, squeals under the tugging hands of Rhorzah, a dragonborn piccolo player. 

 

Kravitz’s head snaps up. “Rhorzah, stop pulling on Steven's braids, you know how much you don't like it when people mess with your horns. Steven, she's a dragonborn, she's not ticklish. What are you fighting over?”

 

Both parties separate with guilty glances and gesture towards the aux cord connected with the office's internal speakers. Kravitz cracks a grin. 

 

“Very understandable. I have a solution, okay? Uh, Rhorzah, what's your birthday?”

 

“April 2nd,” she mutters. 

 

“Steven, yours?”

 

“September 23rd,” he says, ducking his head. 

 

“Perfect. Rhorzah, you have an even birthday, you get the cord on even days. Steven, you get it on odd days. Today is the… 19th,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Steven gets it today. Rhorzah, you have tomorrow. And, since both of you are getting an equal amount of time to play your sick jams, don't complain about the other’s music choice. We all good?”

 

There is much aggrieved murmuring and a couple of angry glances, but the fight stops. Steven picks up the cord and plays an orchestral piece. It sounds like… “Elgar?” Kravitz asks, at the same time that Angus pipes up, “Is this Elgar?”

 

“My man!” Kravitz laughs and high fives Angus. 

 

“Who is Elgar?” Felix asks, and Angus turns to them with a smile lighting up his face. He launches into an explanation and history of everything remotely related to Edward Elgar, composer extraordinaire, which gives Kravitz the break he needs to draft an email. 

 

By the time he's got the content down, Angus has moved on to explaining how he detectived out that his great aunt is actually much younger than she looks or claims to be. Kravitz interrupts as gently as he can manage. 

 

“Angus, which of your… parental units should I email if I want to meet with them about an opportunity?”

 

Angus freezes and cocks his head. “What kind of opportunity?”

 

“You can find out in the meeting. Promise it’s a good thing,” he says. As subtly as he can, Kravitz winks at Angus and grins a little, trying to negate Angus's need to know absolutely everything. 

 

Angus narrows his eyes, but he nods. “You'll probably be wanting Hug Dad.”

 

That wipes the wink right off Kravitz’s face. “Hug… dad?” he asks, bewildered. 

 

“Got three dads and a mom,” Angus says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Honestly, though, it’s not the weirdest thing in the world either, so Kravitz decides to roll with it. 

 

“Real…  _ Three Men and a Little Lady _ situation you got there, huh?”

 

Angus laughs. “Sorta, except none of them are my biological parents. I got Hug Dad and Hug Mom, who are married, and I got Old Man Plant, and Papa Chef, but you're most likely to get a response from Hug Dad. He's  [ dogburns@fantasyhotmail.com ](mailto:dogburns@fantasyhotmail.com) .”

 

“You're giving me… a lot to process here,” says Kravitz, blinking. “Do your parents have… real names?”

 

Angus nods. “Yeah, but everyone gets their names all mixed up, so it’s just easier to call them by who they are than what they’re named.”

 

Kravitz sits back in his chair and contemplates this for a moment. It almost… makes sense? Except for one thing. “Dog… burns?” he asks.

 

“Yeah, it’s like sideburns but with dogs.”

 

“Well… there you go, huh? Dogburns. I like him already.”

 

A grin spreads over Angus's face, lopsided and adorable. “I've told him stories, and he likes you too. He thinks you're good hearted.”

 

“Well,” says Kravitz, because what the hell else can he say? “Uh, tell him thanks. Actually, if all goes according to plan I’ll see him soon, I guess, which would—you know what, whatever. Um, is McDonald your… Hug Parent’s last name?”

 

Angus shrugs. “No, I don’t have any of my parent’s last names.”

 

In response to Kravitz’s furrowed brow, Angus smiles even bigger.  “Well sir, when they adopted me, all my parents fought over what last name I should get. I have two aunts, too, and they said that I should have their last name, because Fangbattle sounded way cooler than any of my dad’s names. Long story short, there was a full-on brawl between my aunts and my mom and my dads and my grandma, who got involved. Hug Dad has a cool scar from where Papa Chef hit him with his umbrella. In the end, no one won, so I kept McDonald for legal things, and each relative calls me by their last name.”

 

“Does that get confusing?”

 

Angus giggles, just a little bit. “Not at all! I like it, to be honest. They all have a piece of my heart, and I have a piece of all of their names.”

 

Felix cracks a grin. “Aww, Ango, that’s real nice,” they say as they elbow Angus in the rib. Angus just smiles down into his sweater and cracks open his lunch, which is a bento box made to look like a train. 

 

“Whoa,” exclaims Felix as they lean closer to the (frankly incredible) bento box. “Did Papa Chef make that?”

 

Angus picks up a sliver of carrot. “Well, I helped him,” he says as he crunches down. This prompts another discussion, this time about how he got the food to look so cute and why he chose a train (“It’s where I met my dads!”). The banter continues until after everyone packs up their lunches and migrates to their next class, leaving Kravitz alone in the office.

 

He makes more notes in his music and then studies the high school’s music, so he’ll know what’s going on when he gets over there. When the time comes, he glances at the clock and stretches.  _ Just like Johann to get sick on a Friday, _ Kravitz thinks.  _ His weekend is gonna suck. _

 

On the drive over to the high school, he calls Johann, who answers with a hacking cough and an exclamation that somewhat resembles a hello. Kravitz rolls his eyes. “Stop being dramatic, bro, you don’t have the flu.”

 

“You don’t know that,” Johann says, his voice miraculously healed, though still melancholy. “I could be dying, and here you are telling me to can it. How’s the funeral prep going? I assume you’ve already started, considering how callous you’re being about my potentially life-threatening—”

 

Kravitz cuts him off, because that’s the only way he’ll derail that train of thought. “I was thinking a nice gray and forest green for the color scheme.”

 

“—sickness. Wait, what?”

 

“How do you feel about a spring loaded, confetti-filled coffin? When scientists dig you up 100 years in the future, they’ll get a fun surprise.”

 

“Kravitz, you ass, I didn’t mean literally plan my funeral, for Christ’s sake.”

 

“Yeah, and I literally didn’t ask for your bitching about being sick. What’s the goals for today, with the bass clarinets?”

 

“Uh,” Johann mutters, mollified. “Just… working through rehearsal letters N to P.”

 

He runs Kravitz through the battle plan for today, all the way until the high school band hall. Kravitz has plenty of time to confirm what he’d heard from Johann with Raven, and then the room fills with kids who are significantly taller but just as goofy as his own. In a manner similar to Mrs. Ece’s introduction to his class, he is introduced to hers, and he takes the bass clarinets to the orchestra hall. They tell him their names, and (thank Christ) there’s only a small moment of awkwardness before they get to work.

 

_ Sandwich difficult bits in small, achievable things, so they don’t get frustrated. Go slow at first, get it right, and then speed it up little by little, until they can play it correctly at full tempo. Build on the basics. _

 

It’s a little different, because they’re older and less wiggly and more serious. But that feeling he gets, of utter rightness, like he’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to do, doesn’t change. He can see the steps he has to take to achieve the goal he wants, and it’s only a matter of following the path his mind lays out for him. 

 

It’s fuckin’ pretentious as hell, is what it is. He used to call his music ed professors fanciful, and look at him now. He’s achieving his potential by waving his arms around and telling kids what to do.

 

There’s a moment, though, when every player gets this really nasty passage  _ right.  _ He looks at his hands as the last note cuts off—the right, the conducting hand, the steady tempo-keeper that provides the foundation. The left, the cueing hand, the hand that turns the pages of his music, the weaver of the tapestry. If his right hand is the warp his left is the weft, and together his head, hands, and heart create an ephemeral work of art out of the air, here one moment and gone the next.

 

Too soon, the period ends, and the bass clarinets pack up all of their stuff and leave him alone with only dust motes to dance to his music. He sets his baton down and gathers his music, smiling softly at a rehearsal executed well. His grin stays with him all the way back to the middle school, where he sits in wait to give Angus’s family the good news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm... i have the rest pretty much done... should i post it now or be Evil and post it later  
> also the spacing is fucking huge i'm sorry i'm gonna try and fix it


	3. cadenza (giocoso)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck it i said i wouldn't but i'm posting this now

Kravitz’s desk has an excellent view of the band hall doors, which means the first thing he sees of Angus’s family is a massive arm pushing the door open. Angus comes in first, pulling behind him a truly massive human being with the most impressive sideburns Kravitz has ever seen. The man has to duck to fit under the door, and he can’t stand to his full height while holding Angus’s small hand. The man looks around at the band hall, sweeping a critical eye over the whole room. Behind him appears a woman just as tall and broad as he, probably with wider shoulders. She puts a hand on his shoulder, passing that same analytical gaze over the building. He’s still examining when she huffs and says, “Magnus, it won’t fall anytime soon, you know that.”

 

_ Fall? What’s falling? The building? _ The man (Magnus?) looks at her and grins. “Yeah,” he grumbles, “you’re right. It isn’t pretty, though.”

 

She rolls her eyes and takes Angus’s other hand, and together they swing Angus for a couple of steps. “Aww, c’mon,” he says, a wide grin threatening to split his face. “I’m too  _ old _ to be swung around like a little  _ kid _ ,” but there’s no malice in it, just an exaggerated joking tone.

 

The man who has to be Hug Dad booms a laugh and says, “Too  _ old? _ Aww, Ango, you’ll always be our lil’ boy!” 

 

Hug Mom steals Angus’s hand from her husband and bodily picks the child up until he sits comfortably on her massive shoulders. “See?” she says, grabbing his hands again and swinging them out goofily. “As long as you can backflip off of me, you’ll never be too old.”

 

She pushes up on his hands and Hug Dad grabs his waist, gently lifting and backflipping him over her shoulders. He’s flushed and giggling when his feet hit the ground, and both Hug Parents take the opportunity to ruffle his hair and give him, appropriately enough, a massive hug.

 

It’s fucking adorable. Kravitz resolutely does not wipe a couple tears away, he  _ doesn’t _ .

 

At the same time as Kravitz doesn’t look for a tissue to blow his nose, a dwarf busts through the door, talking to someone behind him. Kravitz has never actually seen someone to whom the adjective “crunchy” applies… until now. The man has flowers woven in his beard and hair, and he looks like he could get kicked out of a Jimmy Buffett concert for  _ violating the dress code. _

 

_ This is a man who knows how to party _ , thinks Kravitz, apropos of nothing.  _ His party point levels… they’re off the charts. _

 

He’s still contemplating the man’s krunk level when in walks the most beautiful being Kravitz has ever seen in real life. “Walks” isn’t the right word for what he’s doing, though—it’s like his legs skipped past his hips and connected straight to his waist, smooth and fleshless and invulnerable. But he isn’t fleshless, he has flesh—flesh to spare, hachi  _ machi _ . Kravitz has to shake himself, because that’s a middle schooler’s  _ father,  _ he can’t be having those kinds of thoughts at work.

 

Angus did say that none of them were his biological parents, though, and he doesn’t see a ring on the man’s wedding finger (but plenty of other rings elsewhere).  _ No, stop that train of thought at the station.  _ But then the man tilts his chin up, and the highlight on his cheek catches the light, sending Kravitz reeling.

 

No one looks that good in fluorescent light. It’s not possible. And yet here this man is, with bright, sparkly eyeshadow painted over his hooded eyelids, highly visible roots in his hair, and articles of clothing from at least five different outfits combined into a whole that should be garish and clashing, but it fucking  _ works. _

 

Papa Chef adjusts a shawl draped over his shoulder, and very suddenly Kravitz thinks,  _ He could wear a paper bag and still pull it off. _

 

The short one (Old Man Plant, he has to be) glances back at who must be Papa Chef (he can cook, too?), and says, “Well, I thought we might—”

 

“And how’s that working out for you? Thinking, I mean,” interjects Papa Chef, waving a mocking little flick of his wrist at Old Man Plant. He twitches his long ear and the corner of his mouth lifts just a bit, the only indicator of his mirth. 

 

“Ah, stint thy clep,” says Old Man Plant good-naturedly, and then all five approach the office door. Kravitz stands and gestures them in, shaking hands and making introductions. He gets it, now, why Angus doesn’t call them their names, which are really similar. The only one he doesn’t immediately forget is Taako, because who could forget that man’s name even if it wasn’t a delicious tex-mex food item? 

 

“It’s T-double A-K-O, just so you know,” he’d said, as they shook hands. Kravitz had looked down at their entwined hands, his dark and simple, Taako’s even darker but infinitely more graceful, and thought  _ I never want to let go _ .

 

But he had to, and did, and now the family sits haphazardly around Kravitz’s desk because there aren’t enough chairs. Hug Dad sits on the arm of Hug Mom’s chair as Old Man Plant holds Angus in his lap. Kravitz folds his arms flat on his desk and looks at each of them individually.

 

“To business,” he says, nervous now. “There’s a group called the Neverwinter Youth Orchestra, and I think Angus is good enough to be in it. Normally, they recruit out of high schoolers, but it’s not unprecedented for a middle schooler to be a part of it. And frankly, Angus is the best middle school oboe player I’ve ever seen or worked with, possibly the best oboe, period. He deserves a shot to work with people as talented and dedicated as he is.”

 

Silence. Hug Mom has a hand over her mouth, and Old Man Plant’s jaw is somewhere in the lower mantle of the earth. Even the unflappable Taako looks shocked, his eyes wide open. Tears shine in Angus’s eyes as he stutters, “Do—uh, do you really mean that?”

 

“Of course I do,” Kravitz says, a little bewildered. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected for Hug Dad to clasp Kravitz’s hands in his own massive paws, his nails carefully painted, and thank him with more than enough sincerity to chip a tooth on.

 

He extricates his hands as gently as he can and folds them again, close to his chest. “I really and truly believe, Angus, that if you keep working the way you’re working you could be an extremely successful oboe player. I want to help you as much as I can to achieve that, and this will be a good first step.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Taako delicately place his chin on his hand and lean close. Kravitz walks the family through the process of getting into this youth orchestra—auditions, practice times, what rehearsals are like in the organization—and by the end of his spiel, each one of them has a glint of steely determination in their eyes.

 

“It won’t be easy,” he wraps up. “You might not make it your first try. But what matters is that you will be cultivating your skill, Angus. I can tell you right now, though, that no matter how things end up, you’re going to be  _ amazing.  _ I mean, you already are, but I think you’ll realize your full potential.”

 

Angus stands up, Old Man Plant just behind him. The boy sticks his hand out and, with all the seriousness that only a small child can muster, he shakes Kravitz’s hand. 

 

“Thank you, sir,” he says, wavering only a little bit. Old Man Plant rests a steadying hand on his shoulder, and offers his thanks as well. Kravitz goes in for a handshake, but the dwarf says, “Nah, we’re past that,” and pulls Kravitz up out of his chair for a hug. Of course, both Hug Parents join in, and it is an awkward you’re-welcome-filled minute before he disentangles. 

 

Taako stands in the back, smiling at the floor. He ushers out the other parents and Angus with a “Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.” He turns to Kravitz and shakes his hand in both of his own. 

 

“Listen,” he says, “I know the others thanked you, and whatever, but I wanted to swing a congrats your way. You’ve given Angus something to do.”

 

Kravitz blinks, and realizes his hand is still in Taako’s, and realizes that he doesn’t want to change that.

 

“Angus is… well, if he gets bored it doesn’t… go well. You know how he likes mysteries?”

 

“Yeah,” Kravitz says, though he absolutely didn’t know that. It makes sense, though, the pride that Angus takes in knowing and learning what he doesn’t know. “Yeah, he does like to figure stuff out, huh?”

 

Taako blinks right back, heavy-lidded and slow. “Yeah. He does better when he has something meaningful to do, like a mystery, and you’ve given him that, but different. Good job.”

 

Kravitz can’t help the smile that spreads over his face, not that he would want to. “I’m so glad to have been a part of his career. He’s got potential to be one of, if not the best player we’ve ever had in this band program.”

 

As Taako lets go of Kravitz’s hands, Kravitz sees out through the window, where Hug Mom kneels down and raises her hand for a high five from a beaming Angus. The kid rears back for the hit, full on professional baseball player style, and whips forward. At the last moment, though, he freezes all of that forward momentum and instead gently paps his mom’s hand. Hug Dad steals him away, turning him in a complicated dance step that ends in a twirl. Old Man Plant waddles on over and he and Angus go through an intricate, fist-bump-based handshake.

 

Taako swirls out of the room and grabs Angus’s hand, raising it up in a freeze frame worthy victory pose. “Dang, kid, I knew you were good, but I didn’t know you were such a baller!” he crows, proud as a peacock.

 

Kravitz leans on the doorframe and crosses his arms, soaking in the family’s shared joy as that feeling of contentment swells again in his chest. His hands flex against his ribcage, helpless against the tide of this happiness he didn’t know he could cause. 

 

God, this is  _ exactly _ why he chose this job. At the end of the day, he’s had a hand in making his kid’s lives better, whether that hand held a baton or a brochure about a youth orchestra. No matter how small, he’s had an impact, and that’s what matters. 

 

This, here, now, is what matters, and Kravitz wouldn't trade it for any job in the world.


	4. coda (alla dirge)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok this one's a lot darker! potential triggers are in the end notes, but remember you don't have to read it to get a complete story

“Thank you, Kravitz,” Angus says for the umpteenth time as he walks towards the door. Kravitz waves and says “You’re welcome,” but then he stops. 

 

“No ‘sir?’” he asks, trying to be witty. Angus turns his head and opens his mouth to answer, but while he’s distracted he trips over the threshold of the band hall doors and instead mutters an “Ow,  _ shit.” _

 

But that’s not Angus’s voice. It’s all wrong, it’s an adult’s voice coming out of Angus’s tiny body and it’s  _ not right. _ It shouldn’t affect him so deeply, he knows it shouldn’t, but regardless Kravitz snaps upright, prickles of abject fear skittering across his skin because whoever or whatever the  _ fuck _ that is, they are not Angus.

 

He doesn’t know how he knows that, he only knows that when he looks at his favorite student a pit yawns open in his chest cavity and he feels like he can’t breathe.

 

“What are you?” barks Kravitz. Nothing is right, he can’t  _ handle  _ this, can’t deal with this feeling that the ground is slipping out from under him like so much sand. His hands are shaking, colored flecks flitting around the edges of his vision and making him gasp.

 

Angus’s expression smooths over into something so clear and bland it almost isn’t an expression at all. In the same moment, he stands up straight, and all four of his parents swivel their heads to make empty, soulless eye contact.

 

_ Took you long enough, _ they all say at the same time, and Kravitz’s heart breaks in a way that is horrifying and achingly familiar all at once. He shorts out for a moment with the cognitive dissonance of it—this hasn’t ever happened before, it  _ can’t be happening _ , but he knows with bone-deep clarity what will happen next. He tries to move, just a test, and with gnawing resignation he confirms that he can’t move at all (how did he  _ know _ that!?).

 

_ This space lasts so long as you do not question it, _ the images of the family intone, in perfect union. They open their mouths wide and black water pours out and even though it’s not touching him and he knows it’s not  _ real it’s not real none of this is real _ he still feels like he’s drowning, the water roiling and swirling and trying to smash him to pieces with sheer power alone. The band hall crumbles, more of that inky water pouring through its cracks and under its doors until it collapses in on itself, sweeping Kravitz and Angus and his family away into blackness. 

 

Kravitz can’t tell which way is up, can’t even struggle for the force of the water pummeling in every direction and water pours into his mouth and he can’t  _ breathe _ and—

 

He doesn’t have to breathe.

 

How could he have forgotten? Oh God, how could he have forgotten about  _ this,  _ the end to the dream? That’s what this whole thing was, just a dream, a ruse to get him to surrender to this sea. He halts his desperate struggle and looks around him, and the water still buffets him but now he sees the weak light and can make his way to it. He claws his way up and breaks the surface, taking a reflexive gasp of air.

 

He sees the sea and the sky, bleeding into one another at the horizon into a uniform roiling gray. He sees the sickly reflection on the sea’s surface, refracting what light there is so he can’t see below the glass-still surface of the ocean, even though he knows it’s violent underneath.

 

He sees, in the middle of the swollen sky, an open rift, and he knows a soul is coming through. He sees the soul, and knows instantly who it is, as he knows every soul that comes to him.

 

He sees Magnus Burnsides’s soul float toward him. He sees  _ fucking _ Taako, in all his ethereal glory, gliding towards Magnus.

 

He sees Taako’s face tighten with determination. He sees Taako grab on to Magnus’s hand, and he sees two giant arms, one flesh and one soulwood, wrap around them both and cart them back to the land of the living.

 

He sees the rift close.

  
Kravitz struggles against the inky waters of souls surrounding him, but inevitably he sinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter involves a nightmare sequence where kravitz realizes angus is not angus, but something possessing angus. he realizes this before the not-angus does anything bad, but it's still a bit of a cognitive dissonance moment. later the not-angus and his family have water pour out of their mouths, in a nightmarish fashion. it's a little creepy but i tried to tone it down into a less yikes form!!


End file.
